


Silk

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dressing gown kink. They have a barter system. Sherlock reaps the benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for [](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/profile)[**blooms84**](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/) , [](http://turante.livejournal.com/profile)[**turante**](http://turante.livejournal.com/) and [](http://fengirl88.livejournal.com/profile)[**fengirl88**](http://fengirl88.livejournal.com/) because somehow the topic of Sherlock masturbating with his dressing gown came up. And because they're the best, mentally compromised LJ friends a porn writing girlywirly can have. Enjoy dear hearts!  <3<3
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own. D:

**Silk**

 

It was barter system of all sorts and Sherlock wasn’t even sure how it started. Which was disgraceful even by his standards but he couldn’t bring himself to care much for it. At least, not right now. There would be a time when he would get bored of this unspoken game, which was a pity when he considered it. Sherlock could only hope the time would not come too soon.

 

Rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, Sherlock allowed his eyes to adjust to the complete darkness for a moment before sinking onto the bed, his back hunched as he waited for his pupils to cease stretching. He had taken careful precautions to prepare for this moment before hand, purchasing dark blinds and successfully eliminating all possibility of light. He didn’t need it, not for this.

 

His toes curled against the cool floorboards as the anticipation for what was to come bubbled within the bottom of his gut, nauseating and giddying, which was not a wholly unwanted reaction. It was different, new, and Sherlock catalogued it in his mind for future reference.

 

Slowly, he reclined onto the soft mattress of his bed, uncluttered and tidy for perhaps the first time since he moved to Baker Street. He pushed himself to the middle of the mattress and gave himself a moment to allow the default arch in his back to melt and blend against the dip of the springs.

 

Distantly, he wondered if this was what sex was like, the apprehension of knowing it was to come, the bodily feel begging for release. Perhaps this was a type of foreplay- Sherlock didn’t really know or care for that matter; it lacked a significant importance in his mind.

 

He was naked from the waist up, donned in only his light pyjama bottoms because despite Sherlock’s lack of modesty towards other people and their pathetic little excuses, quirks and secrets, he himself did not feel the particular need to prance around the flat naked. He wasn’t shy but he did not want to expose himself completely while his mind was still running rampant with such _dangerous_ thoughts. At least, not for the moment.

 

The sheets were soft against his skin, his hands clenching and unclenching around fistfuls of them as he stared at the ceiling, momentarily lost in the suffocating surrealism of what was happening. Eliminating his sight had allowed a heighted state of touch, hearing and most importantly smell, to run free and rampage throughout his body. Already he could feel tingles in the tips of his fingers as he stroked the silky fabric beneath his sprawled body.

 

His dressing gown.

 

Sherlock was always rather fond of the article of clothing, it did the job and it was _comfortable_.

 

The silk rubbed lusciously against the sensitive skin of his back and his arms and he almost arched into it as he calmed his mind and allowed himself time to sink into the capable hands of his senses.

 

He could smell _them_ in the air, in the room, over his skin. Sherlock, his mind slightly overwhelmed by the thick scent, could only wrap a fist into the gown and bring it up to ghost lightly against his neck to relive some of the glorious pleasant vibrations throughout his body.

 

He should have noticed really, the development in _their_ relationship. It was by a mere fluke that he did not, which was once again disgraceful.

 

Sherlock brought the gown up to his nose, waiting for a brief moment before inhaling sharply-

 

And suddenly his mind was invaded by images of them-

 

John pressing his mouth against Lestrade’s desperately, passionately, roughly. Lestrade’s hands palming down his back, broad, commanding hands removing every last article of clothing until they would fall back onto John’s bed-

 

 _How could he have not noticed?_

 __

Sherlock stroked his hand lower, tracing patterns onto his chest, circling his nipples lightly before ghosting down his abdomen and back up.

 

 _They did it on purpose._ He assumed it was John’s idea at first but Sherlock knew how deep both their feelings ran for him. He wasn’t sad to say he didn’t reciprocate, just disappointed. He did not know how, specifically, to approach such a thing, relationships, love, sex. It was all so troublesome and tiring and Sherlock had neither the patience nor interest for such things.

 

He did enjoy the company of both men immensely though. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. Not even to his skull. Some thoughts were best left inside the mind. But Sherlock knew neither would wait for something that would never happen- thus a small part of him, a minuscule, barely existing part, was genuinely pleased when both John and Lestrade found solace and sexual freedom within each other.

 

Another thought- John pinning Lestrade down, moving lower, his pink tongue dusting over the other’s broad chest, around his nipple, up his neck to bite down briefly and make Lestrade arch up into the touch, mouth falling open around a silent “oh”

 

Sherlock arched his back and his cock throbbed pleasantly in his trousers.

 

 _They did this on purpose-_

 

Why, Sherlock did not have the strength of mind to figure out. And he didn’t want to. It would be the same, Lestrade would come over, Sherlock would disappear and when he returned, his dressing gown would lay enticingly on his bed, reeking of _them_ -

 

He shouldn’t have been so turned on the first time it happened-

 

-the first time John decided to fuck Lestrade into the gown.

 

It returned to the unassuming Sherlock, lying haphazardly on his bed and he had not realised what had happened until he slipped it onto his bare skin, his senses attacked by the scent of sex, _John_ and _Lestrade_. _John and Lestrade having sex, fucking each other, sweating, moaning, writhing, coming._

 

He had never come so hard until that night.

 

Sherlock ran a hand across his hips, slowly but surely untying the draw strings to his trousers and slipping them quietly from around his hips, kicking them off the bed to lie in a lonely, unwanted heap on the floor. The cool air was heaven to his flushed skin and his skin burned as if touched by their own hands-

 

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned as his fingers stole to his throbbing cock, gripping it hard and running a slow thumb over the leaking head. He bit his lip, imagining John doing the same to Lestrade, wrapping his hand in the gown and rubbing it along the inspector’s cock, making him groan and squirm-

 

Sherlock pumped harder, his body shifting lightly on the gown, the silk rubbing against him like skin, as if channelling their touches to him, to his body.

 

He was sweating and _fuck_! It felt so dammed good he couldn’t bare it! The smell, raw and sticky and strong and just there-

 

He pumped harder and rutted into his hand, cheeks blushing a wanton red, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down upon his swollen lip hard as another thought danced across his mind-

 

Lestrade throwing his head back, stifling a wordless shout as John sucked on his cock hard, licked around the head, moaning prettily around him-

 

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck he was so close-_

 

Sherlock never felt like this when he masturbated. It was always so quick, just a brief flash of barely passable pleasure.

 

But was this truly masturbating? Or was this a sort of kinky fucked up way John and Lestrade tried to tell him he was included? That these were the things they would do to him if he could tolerate a sexual relationship long enough with them to experience.

 

Or perhaps this was a solution to the problem? A way in which Sherlock was included, just shy of voyeurism maybe.

 

The thought of Sherlock watching as John would lift Lestrade’s legs to his shoulders and fuck him hard until the man was begging, screaming to come, was almost enough to push him over the edge. He gripped himself impossibly tighter and twisted, throwing his head back against the gown and inhaling-

 

His orgasm came in such a burst, Sherlock barely saw it coming. The building pressure within his abdomen and loins exploded in waves of ecstasy and as cliché as it sounded, there would be no other way to describe it. Bright white spots flashed behind his eyelids and he did not even have the decency to muffle his shouts as he came hard over his fist, twitching, convulsing and moaning.

 

He hoped they heard wherever they were. He hoped they felt it in their bones.

 

When the waves subsided and the pleasure faded into dull pleasant throbs, Sherlock flopped back onto the mattress with panting breaths, his cheeks flushed and lips swollen from biting them too hard. His hands shook slightly but it didn’t matter. He was too tired to care for anything, his bones turning to liquid.

 

He lazily wiped his hand on the gown, smirking quietly to himself and turned onto his side, gathering it and draping it across his rapidly cooling body, feeling for one of the rare moments in his life, complete exhausted.

 

The gown was soft against his skin and he vaguely thought that maybe this was what being wrapped between them would have felt like.

 

In the morning, the gown would be washed and hung on Sherlock’s door as always, as if nothing had ever happened. The only thing that would change was the day John would pull it from its hanger and take it back to his room, Lestrade in tow.

 

And Sherlock, lying there drowsily, the last thought fluttering into his head before he drifted into slumber, could not wait for that day to come.

 

Fin.

  
A/N- Yeah... It's 3:35 in the bloody morning, that's my excuse! That and I'm running on nothing but black coffee! Sigh.... Hope you enjoyed! ^^ <3<3<3

 


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